


Spencer Didn't Do It

by Teragram



Category: Psych
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn has been framed for murder, but Lassiter hopes he won't be too quick to use his alibi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Spencer didn’t do it.” Lassiter’s voice was firm, and a little annoyed that he had to state what should have been obvious to everyone. There was a long silence as Juliet O’Hara and Chief Vick flipped through their case folders, as if the reports might say something different the ninth time around. But they were disturbingly clear.  Officers responding to reports of gunfire had found Samantha Perez, waitress at an upscale restaurant, dead in her Laguna St. apartment at 4:10 am. From the moment they’d come on shift that morning Lassiter and O’Hara had done everything by the book.  And every piece of evidence had pointed to Shawn Spencer.

“His prints are on the weapon.” O’Hara said it regretfully, but behind her tone Lassiter could hear the suspicion. 

_Prints on a murder weapon.  How much clearer does it need to be?_

“Print.  Singular,” Lassiter corrected. Only a thumbprint had been found. “I know.” How could he _not_ know? Ballistics had fired the weapon found at the scene and confirmed that the striations were a perfect match to the bullets that had killed Perez. The registration numbers had been ground to nothing, but when Lassiter had run the clear thumbprint from the gun’s smooth barrel Spencer’s picture had smiled out at him from his computer screen, practically daring him to file the report.

“And trace found his hair on her negligee.” Chief Vick nodded heavily, as if that settled the issue for her.

“It’s circumstantial.” Lassiter knew how he must sound.  The look on their faces said it all: _You are in denial._

O’Hara grimaced, as if taking a nasty medicine. “And the vic’s neighbour saw a man matching Shawn’s description flee the scene.”

“I know. I know.” Hearing the details again weren’t going to make him feel any better. Yes, the description provided by the neighbour, Steven Burnett, had matched Shawn perfectly, right down to his tousled hair. And he’d described the exact make and colour of Guster’s ridiculous little car. “But Spencer didn’t do it.”

“If Shawn is innocent,” O’Hara said patiently, “he’ll have an alibi. And an explanation.”

“You’re right. Of course he will.” Lassiter gritted his teeth.

“None of us wants it to be Mr. Spencer.” Vick leaned forward and her voice dripped with infuriating sympathy.  “But we have to follow the evidence. Especially when it’s one of our own.” Lassiter met her eyes and he could see disappointment there. And surprise that he, of all people, was the one who needed convincing.

Lassiter slapped the case file onto the Chief’s desk so hard he felt his hand sting. “Burnett is incriminating Spencer on purpose.” He jabbed the file with a long finger. “Let me bring Burnett in. Give me an hour with that son of a—”

Anger flashed in Vick’s eyes.  “I am not going to have us accused of intimidating witnesses, Carlton. We’re going to be under a microscope on this one.  Let’s do it right.” She stood, indicating the conference was at an end.  “Do I make myself clear?”

If Shawn had been there, Lassiter thought, he’d have said something ridiculous, like “As clear the rather obvious plot to Bride Wars.” But then if Shawn had been there Lassiter would have had to arrest him. 

“Absolutely.” Lassiter straightened his spine and his tie. Vick had a point.  As soon as they brought Shawn in they were going to have Internal Affairs, and those vultures from the press, not to mention Henry Spencer, watching them like, well, vultures.

“Pick up Mr. Spencer,” Vick said firmly.  “For questioning.”

Lassiter growled. Picking up, booking, and questioning Shawn was a waste of time that would be better spent finding the real killer.

“O’Hara and McNab can do it,” he said.  “I’ve got a… personal matter to see to.” Lassiter turned and left while Chief Vick’s eyebrows were still raised.

As he pulled a copy of every file on the Perez murder, Lassiter went over the details of the previous evening in his mind, looking for a loophole.  Shawn had arrived at his place at 10:00pm, bearing Chinese food.  The evidence was confirmed by both his watch and by the fact that the Channel 8 news with Lloyd Lansing had just started.

“What’s this?” He’d demanded, peering inside the bag. “A bribe?”

“Think of it as a reward,” Shawn had said, making himself comfortable on the couch. “Well, as the prequel to a reward. Think of it as the Prometheus to the chest-bursting goodness that is Alien. Or Aliens, depending on how tired I am. Definitely not Alien 3. I’ll never know why Universal didn’t set that movie on a women’s prison planet.”

They’d eaten garlic spareribs and fried rice and drank icy cold beer and argued about the open homicide on Lassiter’s desk—which Shawn insisted on calling “The Case of the Missing Clues.”  The victim had been found early Sunday morning, in an alley off Palisades, bludgeoned with a tire iron. They had no ID, no motive and no suspects.

“You’re clueblocked,” Shawn explained. “That’s what Gus and I call it when we have no solid evidence or any leads.”

“Right…” Lassiter was unconvinced. Whatever he called it, the lack of a clear suspect was giving him knots in his shoulders and a tension headache. Shawn had helped him release that tension, twice. And in the morning Shawn had made him coffee, bacon, and pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse before slipping out discretely at 7:00am.

Sure, Shawn had an alibi for the time of the murder, but Lassiter doubted he’d be quick to use it.

At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.

* * *

 

Clutching the case files to his thumping chest, Lassiter barrelled through the station. He needed privacy. He needed to think.  He needed to feel like he was doing something. He needed to drive.

He slammed the door on his Ford Fusion, dumped the files on the passenger seat, and then rested his head in his hands.

Had be been used? Had all these little visits of Shawn’s been part of a plot to kill Samantha Perez?

He went over it forwards and backwards in his mind. If the reports of gunshots and Woody’s estimated time of death were correct, Perez has been killed around 4:00am. At that time Shawn had been nestled against him in bed, putting his right arm to sleep with his dead weight. That was a fact. Lassiter wasn’t normally awake at that hour, but lately he’d taken to looking at Shawn’s sleeping face in the glow of the streetlight outside, trying to figure out what, if anything, these visits meant. 

Had it all been an elaborate plot to alibi himself out of a homicide using the SBPD’s head Detective? Lassiter swore and slammed a fist against the dashboard.  
  
_Was there any way Shawn could have gotten to the crime scene? Could he have changed the clocks in the house to fake an alibi?_  He shook his head. If Shawn were so devious wouldn’t he have chosen a different alibi? Something socially acceptable? Of course maybe that was Spencer logic. The more embarrassing the alibi, the more readily people would believe it. It made a twisted kind of sense. The kind that might appeal to someone who made his living as a ‘psychic detective.’  
  
Lassiter pulled out the parking lot onto East Figueroa, his mouth a tight line.

_Shawn never liked you. You were just convenient. Gullible._

He put on his sunglasses, their mirrored surface covering the doubt in his eyes.

Fists clutching the steering wheel, Lassiter ran through every detail of the evening, looking for a moment that rang false. His head told him that Shawn could have changed the clocks. Maybe while Lassiter had taken out the garbage. But his gut told him otherwise.  And if there was one thing he’d learned as a cop, it was to trust his gut.

As he pulled onto Garden he could almost hear his mother’s disapproving voice: _There’s no fool like an old fool._

Parked in front of the victim’s building, Lassiter looked at his phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.  He wanted to call Shawn and give him the heads-up.  He deserved that much.  But when IA started combing through the case, they’d want to know why he’d called the prime suspect in a homicide investigation moments before his arrest. 

_Of course things were going to look bad no matter how you cut it._

How long would Shawn hold out under questioning?  Lassiter figured the psychic’s smart-ass remarks could fill an hour or two by themselves.  Hell, Shawn could probably take up 40 minutes ranting about Harrison Ford and the one-armed man. But when he faced a night in a cell, would his resolve hold?

Lassiter looked up at Samantha Perez’ fourth-floor apartment. It was a nice building, and a good location. According to the superintendent, Perez had just moved in. Maybe that was a lead.  Maybe the killer had expected the previous tenant and killed Perez by mistake. He called the precinct.

“Dobson? It’s Lassiter.  I need everything you can get me on the previous occupant of apartment 401 in that Laguna Street homicide. Yes, today.”

He stepped out of his car and stood, watching. The sun spilled across the wall, a blazing white against the iron grille work and red tiled roof.  Tiny peonies swayed innocently in their planting boxes.  This did not look like the building where a young woman had been shot three times in the chest.  But then most crime scenes didn’t look like crime scenes. Lassiter squinted at the ironwork wrapped protectively across the bottom half of the patio doors.  Someone could have climbed from his own apartment, along the wall, to the Perez apartment. That lying neighbour, Burnett, maybe. 

Regretfully, Lassiter dismissed the idea. Four stories didn’t look like much from down here, but from up there it would be alarmingly high. One slip and you had a 50-50 chance of being outlined in chalk. A break-in like that would take athleticism and fearlessness. And based on the uniform’s report of their interview with Burnett, and the photo from his driver’s license, the man had neither.  Plus there’d been no sign of forced entry. No, whoever shot Samantha Perez had likely knocked on her door and been admitted. Even Burnett could manage that.

Lassiter glanced at his watch. They’d have Shawn in the squad car by now. He could picture him joking around, making a dozen references to The Fugitive or Double Jeopardy—any movie where the accused faces Tommy Lee Jones. But O’Hara was a good interrogator, and she knew Shawn.  It was only a matter of time before she broke him. And then Shawn would tell her everything.

Lassiter groaned. He had three, maybe four hours before Shawn cracked. He just hoped it was enough.

The elevator doors in the apartment foyer opened as he reached for the button and Lassiter was suddenly face to face with the pressed dress shirt and tight fade of Burton Guster.

“Guster?” The doors began to close and Lassiter jammed his hand into the gap, forcing them open again. “What are you doing here?” The elevator buzzed a rebuke.

“I am investigating a murder. And a frame-up.”  Gus stepped into the hall.

Lassiter had seen many faces of Gus over the years—frightened, excited, disgusted, smug, shocked, and trying not to vomit at the sight of a dead body.  But his current expression looked angry. Resentful.

Lassiter felt all the breath leave his body in one swoop.   _Guster knew. He had to._ Lassiter swore under his breath.Despite Shawn’s late-night promises, he’d blabbed.

“By yourself?” Lassiter removed his sunglasses and glanced furtively around.

“Of course I’m by myself. Shawn’s a wanted fugitive.”

The elevator buzzed furiously and the doors attempted to crush Lassiter’s fingers. He pulled his hand back.

“How do you know that?” he asked, testily.

“Uh hello? Police scanner? We heard the BOLO.”

Lassiter smiled. O’Hara would have known that Shawn listened to the scanner. The BOLO was her way of warning him.

“So he’s on the run?” His heart sank. Running was bad. Running looked guilty. Yet part of him was relieved that Shawn might still be free, not yet under the barrage of O’Hara’s questions.

“Shawn didn’t kill that woman,” Gus insisted. “We’ve been best friends since forever.  I know the guy. And he’s no killer. If you weren’t so caught up in doing everything by the book maybe you’d see that too.”

“I do see that.”

“You do?” Gus looked surprised.

The tension in Lassiter’s shoulders relaxed a notch. Maybe Guster didn’t know about him and Shawn.

Lassiter nodded.  “I figure the killer planted Spencer’s print and hair. What I don’t know is whether he was a target or just a convenient patsy.”

Gus looked hopeful. “So you’re not here to gather evidence against him?”

Lassiter jabbed the button to call the elevator again. “I’m here to clear him.”

“Well. That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said.” Gus pressed the button himself. “My primary suspect is the victim’s neighbour, Steven Burnett. There’s no way he could have seen Shawn flee the scene, or get into my car. He’s lying. And lying people are guilty people.“

Lassiter narrowed his eyes at Gus. “You seem to know a lot of details about this case.”

Gus shrugged.  “You don’t become a partner in Santa Barbara’s foremost psychic detective agency without developing some contacts.”

Lassiter sighed. _McNab_. Well, if Spencer really was leading him up the garden path, at least he wasn’t making the trip alone.  The elevator opened and a tiny round woman with a Pekinese dog scurried out.

Gus stepped into the elevator and stood, arms folded, while Lassiter pressed the button for the fourth floor.

“Weren’t you just up there?” Lassiter asked.

Gus nodded curtly. “Yes I was.”

“So why go up again?”

Gus maintained his solemn expression. “I couldn’t get in.”

Lassiter smirked and when the doors opened he led the way to the Perez apartment. He slit the tape that sealed the door, and then unlocked the apartment with the key obtained from the building superintendent.

The Perez apartment was a junior bachelor, with a rumpled bed, kitchenette, and tiny blue bathroom. Lassiter stood by the door and imagined how the murder must have gone down while Gus searched the victim’s desk.  The recycling bin was empty, save for some yogurt containers, the plastic ring of a six pack, carefully cut so as not to choke wildlife, and a long box bearing the name of a local florist.

The matching bouquet was on the desk in a cheap glass vase. “These flowers need water,” Gus noted, sniffing tentatively at the roses.

“And I need evidence,” Lassiter grumbled, mostly to himself.

“Well,” Gus said, “I’ve already learned that she was environmentally conscious, a romantic at heart, and took time to write to her family.” He flipped through some unsent mail. “Girl, your penmanship was fine.” He opened a side drawer and his eyebrows rose. “And personalized stationary. What!”

“She’s dead, Guster, not auditioning for Paths of Love.”

“Well, what have you found out?” Gus asked, moving on to search through the closet.

Lassiter rattled off the details from the background check. “Unmarried, no kids. No criminal record. Doesn’t drive. Worked at that steakhouse, Beefeaters, down on the waterfront.” He assessed the distance from the door to where Perez’ body had been found.

Gus popped his head out from behind the closet door. “The one where they make the fries shaped like little fish?”

“Yeah.”  Lassiter didn’t bother to mention that he’d taken Shawn there for dinner only two days before. He remembered the things Shawn had tried to do under the table of their secluded booth and fought away a smile.

“How do you figure it?” Gus asked.

Lassiter filled his lungs and exhaled slowly.  “Well, the killer knocks on the door. Perez answers it and is shot three times in the chest at close range.” He mimed shooting a gun. “Gunshot residue on the negligee confirms her killer was close.” He wouldn’t mention that Shawn’s hair had also been found on the negligee.  He looked over at the rumpled bed.  Had Shawn and the Perez woman been lovers? Lassiter turned away. The thought cut him deeper than he expected.

Gus sat on the sofa. “Why would a young woman living alone answer the door in a negligee?” He bounced lightly on the cushions and ran a hand over the soft upholstery. “This is a very nice couch.”

“Maybe you can buy it when her grieving relatives auction off the contents of the apartment,” Lassiter said, his voice surly.  He looked at the door, then back at the floor with its imagined corpse. “You’ve got a good point about the negligee. Door’s got a peephole, so she’d know who was knocking.  So…” He looked at Gus and a smile spread across his face.

“So she knew her killer!” Gus’s face lit up.  “Intimately.”

Lassiter nodded slowly.  “You may be right, Guster.”

“Let’s question Burnett about the nature of his relationship with the victim!” Gus bolted toward the door but Lassiter blocked him.

“Hold up. I need something solid before I can get within ten feet of Burnett.”

“What do you suggest?” Gus had his shoulders back and his chin up. Lassiter couldn’t blame him. His best friend was being framed. Doing nothing was not an option.

Lassiter glared at the door, as if his eyes could burn through into their suspect’s apartment. “I’ll dig up what I can to connect Burnett with our vic. You stay here. If he leaves, tail him and see where he goes. Then call me.”

“How am I supposed to tail him? He evidently knows the blueberry.”

Lassiter grumbled as if arguing with himself, then put out a palm. “Give me your keys.”

Gus obeyed and Lassiter slipped them into his pocket, and then held his own keys out to Gus. “Take my car.” As Gus reached for the keys he pulled them back an inch and added, “One scratch and I’ll charge you with assaulting an officer.”

Gus bristled. “I didn’t lay a hand on you.” He snatched the keys.

“I was referring to the car. Check in with me every hour, on the hour.”

Gus hurried back to the desk, grabbed the flowers, and stuffed them into the box from the recycling bin.

“What are you doing?” Lassiter asked.

“I’m taking these flowers.” Gus sniffed their heady bouquet.

“This is a crime scene.”

“So?” Gus sniffed the roses again. “Flowers ought to be enjoyed while they’re still fresh.”

Fiddling with the door lock, Lassiter did not see Burton Guster also slip the victims’ unsent mail and personalized stationary pad into his pocket.

* * *

 

“Shawn?” Juliet O’Hara stepped cautiously into the unlocked Psych office, followed closely by Buzz McNab. The sound of the police band radio crackled from the corner, and she spun to face it, hand moving automatically toward her holster. But the office was empty. 

“Looks like he left a note.” McNab picked up the scrap of paper from the desk and slowly read it aloud. “Jules: I’m totally innocent. I would never kill a waitress. Gone to Beefeaters to look for clues and crispy fish fries.” McNab nodded thoughtfully, perhaps thinking of fries.

“Great!” O’Hara sighed. As much as she wanted to believe in Shawn’s innocence, she had a job to do. And today that job included bringing him in for questioning in a homicide.

“Should I bag this?” McNab asked, staring intently at the message.

“Yes, of course bag it.” O’Hara walked slowly around the office, alert for any indication of Shawn’s innocence or guilt. Finally she spoke. “There’s nothing useful here.  Let’s roll.”

“To Beefeaters?” McNab asked eagerly, trailing behind her.

Once in the squad car, O’Hara’s frustration overwhelmed her reserve. “I cannot believe Shawn would put us in this situation.” She hit the steering wheel angrily with both palms.

“Well, if he’s innocent—” McNab began.

“We have the murder weapon,” O’Hara insisted, taking an angry left. “With his _print_ on it. And his _hair_ on the victim.”

“So you’re saying—“

“So I’m saying all the evidence points to him. Plus an eye witness who described him and his car.”

“Actually, I think it’s Gus’ car.“

“What I don’t get is why Shawn would commit such a sloppy murder,” she said.  “He knows what we look for.  It makes no sense.”

“Unless he—“

O’Hara’s eyes widened. “You think he wanted to get caught?”

“Or,” McNab said, “maybe he’s—“

“Innocent. I know. I can’t help thinking this feels all wrong. Like we’re being fed evidence.”

“Sounds like you want to believe him,” McNab offered.

O’Hara pulled to a stop in the parking lot of Beefeaters. “Maybe I do, Buzz. Maybe he was framed.”

“Then what do we do?”

O’Hara looked grimly at of the Beefeaters front façade, festooned with Union Jacks. “We do our job. We solve this thing.”

* * *

 

Shawn strolled into Beefeaters, and was greeted by a smiling hostess and a roomful of British knicknacks. Somehow, being here on a case was far less romantic than when he and Lassiter had visited only two days ago.

“Good afternoon,” she said, “and welcome to Beefeaters. Table for one?”

“Sadly, no. I’m psychic detective Shawn Spencer. You may remember me as Chad on _Explosion Gigantesca de Romance_.” He smiled and flared his nostrils in what he hoped was a seductive manner.  “But today I’m investigating the murder of Samantha Perez.”

The hostesses’ face became grave. “I heard about Sam. Do the police have a suspect?”

Shawn nodded. “Yes they do. But enough about me, let’s talk about Samantha. Sam. Can I call her Sammy? Samwitch? Samalama?” Shawn quickly scanned the room, noting the secluded booth where he and Lassiter had shared a garlic shrimp appetizer and later talked shop over a couple of porterhouse steaks.

“I guess,” the hostess said. “Sam was a good person. If there’s any way I can help, let me know.”

“Actually,” Shawn said, “detecting is hungry work. Could I get a basket of those fries shaped like fish?”

“Our Famous Fish Chips? Absolutely.” The hostess hurried to place the order. Shawn took the opportunity to duck behind the host station, flip through the reservation book, and take pictures with his phone.  He frowned. His own reservation wasn’t there. Lassiter had insisted on secrecy, so he’d used the name of Clint Eastwood’s character from In The Line of Fire. He squinted at the book. Someone had torn out a page from Saturday. As the hostess returned Shawn intercepted her.

“Tell me, Barbara—” he began.

“My name is Monique.”

“Are you sure? You really look like a Barbara.” Shawn put a hand to his head and indicated a glass bowl of business cards on the small desk. “I sense this bowl was full on Saturday.” Shawn knew the bowl had been full. He’d dropped three Psych business cards into it on his way out after dinner with Lassiter.

The hostess looked puzzled. “We have a monthly draw. The winner gets a 2 for 1 coupon good for any weekday lunch or dinner.”

Shawn nodded.  “Yes, but,” he glanced at his watch, “Two days ago, Saturday, I’m sensing it was much fuller than this.” He moved his hand around the bowl, to suggest fullness.

“Oh yeah.” Monique laughed. “Late Sunday night some guy came in and stole all the cards.”

Shawn ‘s eyes lit with interest. “Really? May I?” Shawn reached into the bowl, scooped out the cards, and quickly shuffled through them. No Psych cards were to be found. Hearing the door, he glanced over his shoulder to see Juliet O’Hara and Buzz McNab enter, looking determined.

“If you want to be included in the next draw I can take your card,” the hostess offered.

“Please do.” Shawn pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over.  “Tell me, Monique, how long does Beefeaters keep their sales receipts?”

“Oh, months. Our manager reports the sales figures to head office at the—”

“Shawn!” O’Hara’s voice rang out sharply as she approached. “You need to come with us. Now.”

Shawn turned back to the hostess. “Could I get those fish fries to go?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Breaker, breaker, this is Black Lightning. What’s your twenty?  Come on back now.”

“Guster?” Lassiter barked angrily at his phone. “Is this you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Gus whispered. “Where are you?”

“Following a lead.” Lassiter, at the city planning commission, nodded his thanks as the clerk deposited several thick folders on the table in front of him. “How’s my car?”

“I’m tailing Burnett,” Gus said. “And your car is fine. So far he’s bought shaving cream and razors at the drug store, and got his hair cut at Kurly’s Discount Kuts. Now I think he’s going to the gym.”

Lassiter opened another folder. “Doesn’t sound incriminating.”

“It sounds,” Gus said triumphantly, “like the actions of a man trying to change his appearance. What have you found?”

“Nothing much. Burnett owns a derelict piece of real estate on the edge of town. Looks like he’s trying to develop it. But unless it ties in with Perez it’s useless. We’re nowhere.” He slammed the folder shut and started on another.

“So I guess I shouldn’t tell you what I found out about the flowers from the Perez apartment?”

Lassiter stopped flipping pages. “Go on.”

“The flowers are the Chandos Beauty, voted most fragrant at this year’s Pacific Rose Society competition.”

“I don’t need their life story. Are they relevant to the investigation?”

“They were bought on Sunday,” Gus continued, “ at a garden centre on Calique. They were bought by—drumroll please—Mr. Steven Burnett. They’re faxing a copy of the receipt to the station.”

Lassiter’s mind processed this information while Gus imitated the sound of a crowd, cheering his discovery.

“What I’d like to know,” Gus added, “is what made him go from buying her flowers yesterday afternoon to shooting her last night? Assuming he’s our guy.”

“Good question, Guster.” Lassiter’s voice lightened. “Maybe you’re help isn’t the lead weight I thought it would be in this investigation.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Gus said, “I intend to continue my stakeout of the gym from the Jamba Juice next door.”

* * *

 

“So you decided to evade arrest?” O’Hara’s voice was high and sharp. “In what world does that help?”

“The Real World.  My So-Called Life.  Boy Meets World.” In the back seat of the squad car, Shawn leaned forward. “Come on, Jules, I did the only thing I know how to do. Solve the case.”

“That’s _our_ responsibility, Shawn.”

“And look what a bang-up job you’re doing!“ He slapped the plexiglass partition.

“You knew we had a BOLO out on you and you fled.” O’Hara sounded angry but Buzz noticed she’d missed at least two turnoffs that would have taken them in the direction of the station.

“Fled is such a guilty word,” Shawn said. “I didn’t flee. I simply moved from one location, which had no clues, to a second location, which was absolutely awash in clues. Back me up on this, Buzz.”

“Well,” Buzz admitted, “technically you did resist, delay, or obstruct a public officer in the discharge of our duties.”

“Fine. I confess! I’ll pay the fine.” Shawn patted his pockets awkwardly. “Will you take Gus’ credit card?”

“Actually,” O’Hara said smugly, “the statute says we can also imprison you for up to a year.”

“I was hoping you’d forget that part,” Shawn admitted. “Look, I can prove my innocence, but only if I’m free to look and touch and smell and fondle. Okay, maybe not fondle.  But grope. Certainly grope. There’s a 65% chance of groping.”

“Sorry Shawn,” O’Hara said. And Shawn thought she really did sound sorry. “We have to bring you in.”

“Are you angry?” McNab asked as O’Hara finally turned the squad car in the direction of the station.

Shawn threw himself back against the seat and glared out the window. “Angry-ish.”

* * *

 

“Gosh,” McNab said, looking through the two-way mirror into Interrogation Room A, “I feel bad for Shawn. He must be really scared.”

O’Hara pursed her lips. “You know what, Buzz? I’m scared too.”

Inside the interrogation room, Shawn considered his options. So much was on the line. The door opened and O’Hara entered, seemingly engrossed in the folder she was reading. She slid a picture onto the table. Samantha Perez, taken at the restaurant where she worked.

“How would you characterize your relationship with Ms. Perez?” O’Hara asked.

“Is that a rhetorical question?” When she didn’t reply Shawn added, “I would characterize our relationship as that of murder victim and psychic detective. Nothing more.” Strictly speaking, that was a lie. His mind went back to the recent evening he and Lassiter had spent at beefeaters. Perez had been their waitress. She’d seemed happy. Friendly.

“So you deny having an altercation with her last night?”

“I totally deny it. No altercation. No commotion. Not even a kerfuffle. Come on, Jules.  You know me.”

“I know your hair was found on the body and your print was found on the murder weapon.” She added the trace analysis and the ballistics reports to the photo on the table. Evidence against him, piling up.

“I know. I know.” Shawn glanced petulantly at the reports, noting the details almost automatically. “And that does not sit well with me. Much like the fish taco I got from the El Pescadero truck this morning.” He bumped a fist lightly against his chest and grimaced. “Fish needs to be kept refrigerated, am I right?”

“Let me help you, Shawn.” O’Hara leaned forward and squeezed his arm reassuringly. “I want to help you.”

“Really?” Shawn looked at her squarely. “Then cut me loose and let’s go get the bad guy.”

O’Hara sighed. “I wish I could, Shawn. But I’m investigating a homicide and right now you’re our best suspect.”

“Oh yeah?” Shawn was agitated now. “What about her co-workers?  Old boyfriends? People she blocked on Facebook? Enemies from high school?”

“We’re looking into all angles,” O’Hara assured him.

“Well what about the guy following me? Are you looking into that?”

She frowned. “Someone’s following you?”

Shawn nodded. “I always feel like somebody’s watching me.  And I have _no_ privacy!” His voice took on a choppy cadence. “When I’m in the shower, I’m afraid to wash my hair!”

“Can’t you be serious for one minute?” O’Hara pleaded.

Shawn threw up his hands. “Are you kidding? This whole situation is ridiculous. I feel like I’m trapped in an Adam Sandler movie.” He motioned toward the door. “Only instead of Gus there’ll be a racist stereotype played by Rob Schneider coming in any minute now.”

“The only person who’ll be coming through that door is McNab, to take you to a cell.  Unless you help me.”

Shawn pulled out the big guns. “I’m getting something.” He put a hand to his temple. “I sense that you know I’m innocent.  You believe in me.” He appealed to her. “Am I wrong, Jules?”

O’Hara’s face fell. “Maybe not. But I know you’re hiding something, and given the circumstances, Shawn, I have to know what. Do you have an alibi for the night Perez was killed?”

Shawn nodded glumly.

“Where were you?” She touched his arm again.

Shawn pulled back.  “I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret. Like how Red Lobster makes those delicious Cheddar Bay biscuits.”

She rolled her eyes. “That recipe’s been online for years.”

“Seriously?  How have I not been eating delicious garlic cheddar biscuits all this time? I don’t get it.”

“Well get this, Shawn.” She was using her angry voice now. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me where you were last night. Simple as that.  You have an alibi? Give it up and walk free.“ She gestured toward the door, just waiting to be opened.

Shawn turned his head away from the tempting door and pouted. “I’d like to exercise my right to remain silent. “

O’Hara smirked and collected her papers. “Good luck with that.”  She turned toward the mirror.  “Buzz, please escort Mr. Spencer to holding.” She turned again, and her blue eyes were expectant. “Unless you have something to tell me?”

“I was with…someone,” Shawn felt the words come almost unbidden from his mouth. Where was Gus when you needed him? For that matter, where was Lassie?

“Someone.” O’Hara made the word sound like an accusation.

“A friend.” Shawn smiled. “A part-time luvvah. Uno amigo con carne.“ Shawn mimicked answering a phone, “Hellooo? Who’s there?  It’s booty.  Booty who? Booty call! That’s what I’m talking about.”

“A name, Shawn. I need a name.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, Jules.” Shawn mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key.

O’Hara pressed her lips together and this time Shawn could see a redness rimming her eyes. She cleared her throat and turned her face away. 

“In that case, we’re done here.”

* * *

 

Lassiter climbed awkwardly into the small blue Echo and dumped a sheaf of photocopies onto the files already littering the passenger seat.  His grunt work at the planning commission had paid off. Burnett was poised to make big bucks if his land deal went through. Maybe the Perez murder was linked in with shady corporate developers. At least it gave them an additional angle to work. He glanced at his watch. Guster had called to report that Burnett had returned to his apartment. Lassiter agreed to meet him at the Psych office to compare notes by 3:00.

“I am so gonna nail this guy!” he muttered to himself as he pulled out of the parking lot.

“I hope you’re not talking about my son.” Henry Spencer’s gruff voice rang out from the back seat. Startled, Lassiter twisted round to face the intruder, and the car swerved.

“Goddamnit, Henry! What are you doing here?” Lassiter pulled back into the proper lane and glared at the elder Mr. Spencer in his rear view mirror.

“My son’s been picked up and is probably going to be charged with murder.” Henry’s scowling face clashed with the playfulness of his pineapple print shirt. “What do you think I’m doing here?”

“How is that _my_ problem?” Lassiter knew exactly how Shawn’s arrest was his problem. But how much Henry knew, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m making it your problem.” Henry leaned forward and grabbed the photocopies on the passenger seat. “What’s all this? More evidence to frame Shawn?”

“Easy, Serpico. I’m on your side.” Lassiter headed toward the beach. “The neighbour who ID’d Shawn owns property he’s hoping to develop. It’s big money. Plus, we think that the victim and Burnett were romantically involved. He sent her flowers the day of the murder.”

Henry thumbed through the papers. “How’s the land deal tied in?”

Lassiter shook his head. “Not sure yet. But Burnett tried to hide it. When we questioned him he claimed to be employed as an accountant. No mention of the land or the proposed development.”

Henry rubbed his hands together. “So let’s wrap this baby up and put it to bed.”

Lassiter looked annoyed. “I need more details before I can go to the Chief with this.”

“So let’s question Burnett.” Henry looked prepared to question him with his bare hands.

Lassiter shook his head as he parked outside Shawn’s office.  “We can’t. If we so much as—Oh crap!” He tried his best to duck within the confines of the small car. “I recognize that guy.” He nodded toward a tall man in a slim-fitting suit peering into the Psych office through a window. “He’s IA. I think his name’s McClellan.”

“IA?” Henry leaned forward and nodded his suntanned head. “Okay. I say we work this to our advantage.”

Lassiter turned and raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking?”

Henry glared intently at McClellan. “Well, if we can’t talk to Burnett ourselves….” Henry let his sentence hang as he silently opened the rear door of the Blueberry and slid to the ground. “Follow my lead.”

* * *

 

Burton Guster strolled through the corridors of the Santa Barbara police station, acutely aware that all eyes were on him. He tightened his grip on the white paper bag he carried and forged on.

“Oh Gus!  Gus!” Shawn called down the corridor as his friend approached. “I knew you’d come! I knew you’d rescue me. You made a vow. A vow to clear my good name.”

Gus looked concerned. “I didn’t make any vow.”

Shawn nodded vehemently. “Yes. Yes, you did. You vowed that you wouldn’t return unless it was with evidence that meant I could walk out of here a free man.” Shawn switched to his raspy imitation of Marlon Brando in The Godfather, “Cleared of all these false charges.”

Gus’ brow wrinkled. “I said I’d look into it.”

Shawn grinned. “I knew what you meant.”

“Well I am looking into it.” Gus handed the bag over through the bars. “But first, I brought you some food.”

Shawn grabbed the bag. “Thank goodness. I’m starving. You know they only serve three meals a day in here? It’s cruel and unusual. I feel like Mandela.”

“You are nothing like Nelson Mandela,” Gus objected.

“Come on!” Shawn sat on the cot and opened the bag. “Imprisoned for a murder I didn’t commit?”

“You’re thinking of Hurricane Carter,” Gus said, watching Shawn devour the crispy chicken. “Mandela was charged with conspiring to commit sabotage.”

“Really?” Shawn paused, drumstick in hand. “That sounds pretty serious.”

“He was fighting a racist dictatorship, Shawn.”

Shawn nodded and finished chewing. “So back to my predicament. It’s in your hands now, buddy. Well, You and Lassie. Maybe my dad.  And Buzz. And Woody. Maybe Jules.  Uh, on second thought, scratch Jules. I won’t be counting on Jules.”

“What about you? Aren’t you trying to solve this?”

“Uh, I’m kind of busy.” Shawn gestured with the drumstick. “Being imprisoned and all.”

“So that’s it?” Gus asked, angry. “You’re throwing in the towel?”

“Think of it as passing the towel to someone who can actually move more than 6 by 8 feet at a time.”

Gus pulled the stationary notepad and envelope from his pocket and held them through the bars. “I found these in the Perez apartment.” Shawn sucked the sauce from his fingers and took the items as Gus smiled conspiratorially.  “The notepad was blank,” he said, “but I used the old pencil shading trick and there’s an imprint of her last message on it.”

“Kudos on your pencil shading skills. They’re elementary, my dear Gus.” He pursed his lips.  “Restaurant. K. Chow. 6pm.”

Gus’ eyes shone.  “It could be a clandestine meeting.”

Shawn’s mind ran back to the missing page from the reservation book.  “You may be right. Beefeaters might have had a reservation for K. Chow at 6:00pm. But unless we can prove it, and connect it to the murder it’s not much use.”

Gus’s face fell and he stuffed the notepad into a pocket. “Well her mail might give us a lead.”

Shawn shuffled through envelopes. “Boring, boring, oooh! A letter to her mother.” He frowned. “It’s not opened.”

Gus help up his palms. “I wasn’t gonna open it,” he hissed, lowering his voice. “That’s mail tampering.”

“Only if it’s been left for collection.” Shawn held the letter up to the light. “SBPD probably would have gotten around to opening this if they didn’t have so much,” he wiggled his fingers in little air quotes, “evidence.” He passed the letter back to Gus. “I say we steam it, read it, seal it, and put it back.”

“That’s legal?”

“It’s not a felony.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Gus said. “What will you be doing?”

Shawn stretched out on his cot and took another bite of chicken. “I will be eating, then sleeping. Perhaps learning to play the harmonica.”

Gus reached through the bars and flicked Shawn hard on the ear. “Think, dammnit!” He ignored Shawn’s wince and wounded glare.

“I’m thinking,” Shawn assured him. “Trust me, I’m on the case.”

“Well I’m on the case too. As is Lassiter, who for some reason believes you’re innocent.”

Shawn smiled. “Lassie will figure it out.”

“You better hope he does, because you’re looking at life without parole, maybe even the death penalty. Have you spoken to a lawyer yet?”

“I don’t need a lawyer.” Shawn lowered his voice to a whisper. “I have a secret alibi.”

Gus glanced around and lowered his voice as well. “A secret alibi?”

Shawn made a face. “Of course I do! Please.  You think I just sit home all night playing Candy Crush and prank-calling Henry? That’s just Wednesday thru Friday. The rest of the week I’m out, painting the town red. Or bubblegum pink. Perhaps a nice lavender.”

“So what’s your secret alibi?”

“It’s not a what. It’s a who.”

“So who is it?”

“I don’t kiss and tell, Gus.”

“Yes you do.” Gus crossed his arms. “In fact, I could probably list every girl you’ve kissed since elementary. Heck, you made me break up with two of them for you.”

“Relationships were tougher in junior high,” Shawn admitted. “And you’re so good at giving bad news. I’d like to outsource all my breakups to you.” He smiled. “Hey, you could make it a business.”

Gus ignored Shawn’s tangent. He’d had a lot of practice.

“So who’s this alibi?” he asked. When Shawn didn’t answer he added, “Is it Gina Repach?”

Shawn winced. “God, no.”

Gus’s face clouded.  “It better not be my sister.”

“It’s not.” Shawn smiled. “How is Joy, anyway? Is she seeing anyone?”

“Do not go there,” Gus warned.

“Too soon?”

“Is it Jules?” Gus asked, ignoring Shawn’s question.

“No.  It’s not Jules. What is this, twenty questions? Just trust me. I have an alibi. A good one.”

“Then spill it,” Gus demanded.

“It’s need to know.”

Gus pointed a finger at himself. “I need to know.”

Shawn leaned back on his bunk and shrugged as if helpless.

Gus felt the anger rising in his chest. He’d blown off work to help clear his best friend’s name. He’d searched a dead woman’s apartment and stolen things from a crime scene. He’d agreed to work with Lassiter, who gave him the heebie jeebies. Yet Shawn seemed determined not to help himself. Gus fumed. How could he be expected to play their hand if he wasn’t allowed to see all the cards? Shawn’s alibi, if he had one, was their ace in the hole. He needed to know. Time was running out.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” Gus said seriously. “But you leave me no choice.” He cleared his throat, stood on one foot, and held his left hand up in the salute they’d invented when they were seven. “Shawn Spencer, I invoke the best friend code. Section four, subsection C. ‘A best friend will share any and all secrets when asked.’ I demand you tell me your secret alibi.”

Shawn hung his head, defeated. “The code?  Really?”

Gus shook his head, regretting nothing. “You left me no choice.”

“Fine.” Shawn moved toward the bars, peered down the hallway to ensure the coast was clear, and leaned in. “I was with Lassie last night,” He whispered.

“Why were you at Lassiter’s place at 4:00am?” Gus looked thoughtful. “Unless…”

Shawn nodded and beckoned with his hands. “Bring it home, buddy.”

Gus’ eyes widened. “Unless you were working a case without me!”

Shawn sighed. “Yes.  If, by ‘working a case’ you mean something completely different. Something… sexual.”

Gus’ face wrinkled. “Sexual?”

Shawn stood, paced the tiny cell, and returned to rest his head against the bars. “I’m a Romeo in black jeans, Gus, and Lassiter is my Juliet. Not Juliet as in Jules, but Juliet as in Clare Danes. Although I would also accept Olivia Hussey.”

Gus winced. “Juliet is 13 in that play, Shawn.”

Shawn frowned. “Really? Wow. Now I feel dirty. And not in a good way.”

“And considering how Romeo and Juliet ends, I’d pick a different template if I were you.”

Shawn snapped his fingers and pointed at Gus. “You may have a point.”

They stood in silence for a few moments as Shawn devoured the rest of the chicken.

Gus looked at the floor, hesitant to make eye contact. “So, you and Lassiter. Is this a thing?”

“Gus, don’t be the Westboro Baptist Church protesting Glee’s rendition of Elton John’s Ice on Fire.”

“I don’t get what you see in him. That’s all.”

Shawn smiled. “Lassie’s tall, aggressive, and he smells like new guns. What’s not to like?” He tilted his head and stared at his friend. “Fess up. Is this about you and me?”

“You know I don’t think of you that way, Shawn.” Gus looked away. “I’ve had my ‘like-you-as-a-friend’ speech prepared since junior high.”

“Fine. Next time I date a dude I’ll get firmly but politely rebuffed by you first. I promise.”

“So you and Lassiter are officially dating?”

“Uh, that’s still to be determined. But I have hope.” Shawn licked his fingers then wiped them with a napkin. “Time for some after dinner entertainment. Let’s hear your speech.”

“When this is all over,” Gus promised. “When your name is cleared.”

“Why not now?” Shawn asked, leaning back on the cot. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

Gus shook his head, still looking doubtful. “Later. There’s a portion I have to act out with hand puppets.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Detective McClellan of the SBPD Internal Affairs division ran his hand over the piece of paper he’d witnessed Henry Spencer throw into the trash, smoothing it flat.  Climbing from his bronze Impala he looked at the weed-choked field in front of him, down at the paper, then back to the field. This was the property, all right. It had to be connected to the Samantha Perez murder. He just needed to figure out how.

McClellan climbed back into his Impala and called a friend at the planning commission. A short time late he headed in the direction of Laguna Street to speak with a Mr. Steven Burnett.

* * *

 

Shawn leaned against the bars of his cell and toyed with the cord of the pay phone as he waited for his call to connect. Gus was right.  He needed to get proactive or he’d be celebrating his next birthday with a cake baked in a toilet.

“KXFM plays all the classic rock hits!” Woodrow Strode’s happy voice declared.

“Woody!” Shawn tried to sound upbeat. “How’s my favourite coroner?”

“Shawn, good to hear from you!” The coroner’s voice became serious. “Gossip around the water cooler has it you’ve been arrested.”

“I cannot tell a lie, Woody. I am temporarily a guest of our fair state. But like Michael Jackson, I am an innocent man.”

“I knew it!” Woody’s voice was jubilant. “Thanks, Shawn.  Now I can enjoy The Girl Is Mine without guilt.”

“No Problemo. Listen, remember that bludgeoning case Lassie was working on?”

“I sure do. Tire iron to the back of the head. Intercranial bleeding. Death within minutes. All in all, not a bad way to go. Although given my druthers I’d prefer shotgun in the mouth. My second preference would be heart attack during lovemaking.”

“Sounds great,” Shawn said, wondering why Woody ranked shotgun death first. “So, stomach contents. Talk to me.”

“At the moment it’s a bean salad, but tonight I’m having sushi.”

“I meant on the vic. The bludgeoning.”

“Oh. We’re looking at garlic mashed potatoes, a side of green beans and a very tasty porterhouse.”

“Tasty?”

“Tender. Did I say tasty? I meant tender. Obviously.” Woody chuckled nervously.

“Thanks, Woody.  That, uh, that confirms a premonition I had earlier. Listen, I’m down in holding.  If anything else comes up on the bludgeoning case will you let me know?”

“Absolutely. I’ll send you a copy of the report as soon as it’s ready.  And maybe some Louis L’Amour novels.” Woody’s voice became concerned. “Be careful in there, Shawn. I’ve heard stories about what happens in holding. One minute you’re playing solitaire and the next you’re playing Maria in a jailhouse production of West Side Story.“

* * *

 

“Lassiter!” Gus’ angry voice rang through the Psych office as he stormed in through the open door. “How come you didn’t tell me that—” Gus paused mid-rant as he saw Lassiter seated at Shawn’s desk, eating hamburgers with Henry Spencer.

“Didn’t tell you what?” Henry asked, looking up from his food.

“Uh, that…that,” Gus looked to Lassiter for a save.  He could feel the sweat from his palm wetting his bag of takeout.

 _Damn_ , Lassiter thought. _Shawn had spilled his guts_. _It was just a matter of time before the whole station knew. Maybe they knew already._

“Guster wants to know why I didn’t tell him about McClellan from Internal Affairs being on the case,” Lassiter supplied.

Gus nodded warily.  “Yeah. That.”

“Relax,” Henry said.  “We took care of him. McClellan’s gonna look into Burnett for us. Which reminds me.” Henry looked at his watch. “McClellan should be on his way to Burnett’s about now.” He pulled out a cell and dialled a number Lassiter had given him. “They’re onto that property deal,” Henry said, his voice a low whisper. “You know what to do.” He hung up, looking satisfied. “That should put the wind up Burnett’s skirt.”

“And if anyone traces that call to you?” Gus asked. “Then what?’

Henry shrugged.  “It’s a burner. I’ll drop a few leads then ditch it.”

Lassiter looked at Henry with a mix of admiration and suspicion. “You carry a burner phone?”

Henry’s smile broke widely across his tanned face.  “You’d be surprised how often a retired cop needs to make an anonymous call.”

Gus nodded approvingly. “Nice work.” He ate one of his fries. “I just stopped in to visit Shawn and bring him some food.”

The smile dropped from Henry’s face. “How’s he holding up?”

“He’s exercising his right to remain silent,” Gus said, meeting Lassiter’s eyes. “Juliet didn’t get anything out of him.”

“If Shawn keeps quiet it’ll be a first,” Henry declared.

“You can call her and check if you don’t believe me,” Gus said.

Lassiter pushed his food away from him. He had lost his appetite. “I believe you, Guster.”

“I’m sure Shawn would like to see you both,” Gus said glaring hard at the thin detective. “At your earliest opportunity.”

“Right.” Lassiter nodded, his eye on Henry to see if the elder Spencer suspected anything.  “Earliest opportunity.”

* * *

 

Juliet O’Hara picked up her mug, took a sip of coffee, and grimaced as she swallowed.  It had gone cold. How long had she been staring at this ballistics report? Carrying the offending coffee she walked into the break room and poured herself a top up.

Buzz McNab was microwaving a burrito.

“This ballistics report is bothering me,” She said, half to herself and half to Buzz.

“How so?” Buzz asked, watching the digital countdown on the microwave, his mouth watering and his stomach growling. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“There’s only one print.” She moved to the fridge and pulled out the cream, sniffing at it warily. “I mean, if you leave the gun behind you’re gonna wipe it down, right?”

“Sure.” Buzz nodded sagely, despite never having been in a situation that required wiping his prints off a gun.

“And if you didn’t wipe it down then there’ll be partials, smudges…something.” She added the questionable cream to her coffee and watched to see if it would curdle. “But there’s just one print. And it’s Shawn’s.”

“And Shawn has an alibi,” Buzz pointed out.

O’Hara sighed. “So he says.” She tilted her head up at her big colleague.  “Buzz, if you were charged with murder, what would keep you from giving an alibi?”

Buzz blushed. “Maybe if it was super duper embarrassing? Or a secret I was sworn to keep?”

Her forehead furrowed. “Embarrassing…yeah. I could see that. Something secret.”

“Still,” Buzz leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. “It would have to be a pretty good secret to risk going to jail.”

She nodded.  “Yeah. It would, wouldn’t it?” She began to run through possible scenarios in her mind. What, of all things, could embarrass Shawn Spencer? The man was shameless.

“Maybe Shawn didn’t fire the gun,” Buzz suggested.  “Maybe he just…touched it.” He demonstrated, reaching his thumb toward an apple on the counter and lightly touching its green skin.

“It makes no sense,” she complained. “I mean, a single print?” She mimed holding a gun. “And on the barrel? Who holds a gun with their thumb on the barrel?”

“So you’re saying...”

“…maybe the print is a fake!” they chorused. Behind them, the microwave beeped.

O’Hara, energized now, pointed at Buzz with her spoon. “Get me everything you can on the neighbour, Burnett. Where was he the day of the shooting? Did he ever own a gun? Could he get access to one?”

“You betcha!” Buzz pulled his notebook from a pocket and wrote the instructions down.  “Do we think he’s a suspect?”

O’Hara scratched the back of her head. “Honestly Buzz, I don’t know what to think.”

“I’ll get right on it.” With two bounds, Buzz was out of the kitchen.

Her thoughts intent on Shawn, and his mystery alibi, O’Hara took her coffee back to her desk.

Moments later Buzz furtively re-entered the kitchen, retrieved his burrito from the microwave, and hurried away.

* * *

 

The head detective picked up his ringing cellphone, but didn’t recognize the number calling.

“Lassiter.”

“Hey Lassie. It’s me.” Shawn’s voice sounded tired.  “I was hoping you’d come by tonight. Why the no-show? Was Gus’s message too subtle?”

“I’ve been busy, Shawn.” He sighed as he sifted through his case notes. “It doesn’t look good. The gun? The print? The hair? If I didn’t know better—“

“You’d what?” Shawn cut in, half-laughing. “Assume I murdered an innocent woman?”

Lassiter swallowed. He was pretty sure Shawn wasn’t a killer, but he’d spent his whole life trusting the evidence. And in this case, it was all pointing to Shawn. If it was a frame, it was a very good one.

He growled low in his throat. “All I’m saying is that the evidence is damn compelling.”

Shawn huffed. “Not to people who actually know and trust me. Gus believes me.”

“Well, Henry believes you too, but he and Guster are family. We need to convince the DA. And if that fails, a jury.”

“Buzz believes me.”

“McNab believes in the Easter Bunny.”

“Jules believes me.”

“Really?” Lassiter’s mouth hardened. “I see no evidence of that, given that you’re sleeping in holding tonight.” Instead of at my place, Lassiter could have added, but didn’t.

“Trust me, Lassie,” Shawn’s voice softened. “I’m on this thing 100%. Pretty soon I’ll be out and then you and I can celebrate by—“

“Are you calling me from holding?” Lassiter interrupted, his voice tight.

“No. I’m calling from the bar at LAX. I’m about to board a flight to Venezuela. Of course I’m in holding. Duh!“

Lassiter gritted his teeth. “Did you know that all calls made from holding are monitored, Spencer?”

“Uh, no,” Shawn admitted. “I was not aware of that.”

“If you attended more trials you’d have heard those recordings used in court.” It occurred to him that he might not have been Shawn’s first call of the day. “Is there a chance we might hear something like that on this case?”

“I sincerely hope not,” Shawn said, sounding uneasy.

“Good night, Mr. Spencer,” Lassiter said, hoping he wouldn’t have opportunity to hear this conversation again in front of a judge.

For a few minutes Lassiter sat, staring at the case board he’d assembled in his kitchen. All psychic bullshit aside, Shawn was a great detective. But he might be too close to this case to see it clearly. Given enough time, he, Henry, and Guster might make some progress.  Maybe even clear Shawn completely.  But that was time he didn’t have.  The DA would be pushing for charges. Unless…. He grabbed his cell and punched in the District Attorney’s home number. It was time to call in a few favours.

* * *

 

When Lassiter entered the holding area the next morning he could hear Burton Guster.

“...may take longer than we expected,” Gus was saying. “The DA is dragging his feet about laying a charge. On the up side, if they don’t charge you within 48 hours then they have to release you.”

“Relax,” Shawn said. He didn’t bother to remind Gus that if they wanted to extend his stay they could charge him with a lesser crime—say, evading arrest. “You’d be surprised how much I can get done from in here. I’m like a crime lord, busted for tax evasion, running my empire from prison.”

“Nobody’s going to prison.” Lassiter cut in. He and Gus exchanged a nod of greeting, then turned their attention to Shawn, who was sitting on his bunk amidst a handful of western novels.

“Lassie’s right,” Shawn said. “We’ll beat this.”

“We will,” Gus agreed. But Lassiter saw the man’s lip wobble.

“Don’t go all marshmallow on me, Guster” Lassiter warned.  “Shawn’s going to be fine.”

“I know it,” Shawn said.

“You know it?” Gus asked, a hitch in his voice.

Shawn smiled. “As sure as I know that every show set in  high school takes a nosedive when the main character goes off to college.”

Gus’ brow wrinkled. “That’s not true.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Boy Meets World, Dawson’s Creek, Gilmore Girls, Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I rest my case.”

Gus shook his head. “I’ll give you Dawson’s Creek and Gilmore Girls. And to be fair, I stopped watching Boy Meets World after they recast Morgan. But no way Buffy got worse. Season four had Willow meeting Tara, Spike with a chip in his head, and the Hush episode!”

Shawn crossed his arms and looked determined. “Saved By The Bell, Sabrina The Teenage Witch, and Veronica Mars.”

Gus countered. “Different World. Felicity. Undeclared.”

“No way, Dude!” Shawn threw his arms wide. “Those shows started off in college.”

Gus leaned back and observed his friend from beneath lowered lids. Maybe arguing about shows neither of them watched anymore made Shawn feel less like his life and liberty were on the line.

“Fine. I concede.”

“So,” Shawn turned to Lassiter, his voice chipper, “what’s on the agenda for today?”

Lassiter shrugged. “If they charge you, you’ll be taken for arraignment, plead not guilty, and be released on bail or….”

“Or?” Gus looked panicked.

“Or he’ll be held in county until trial.” Lassiter looked at the floor.

“I always knew one of us would end up in jail,” Gus said. “I just hoped it wouldn’t be so soon.”

Shawn moved forward to sooth Gus, who was now sniffing at regular intervals.

“You,” Lassiter snapped, pointing a finger at Gus, “Stop crying. And you,” he turned to Shawn and lowered his voice. “If it comes to that, pick a fight your first day inside. Let them know you’re not an easy mark.”

Gus, chastised by Lassiter’s stern words, pulled his emotions under control, and removed a tissue from his pocket.

Shawn straightened his spine and grabbed hold of the bars of his cell. “Lassie, I’m a seventh level Shaq Fu Master. Don’t you know that karate men bruise on the inside?”

Behind his bluster, Lassiter could see fear in Shawn’s eyes. He reached a hand out to him, paused, glanced at Gus who was busily wiping his eyes, and then wrapped his fingers around Shawn’s. “I can show you some moves. Never underestimate the value of a swift punch to the neck.”

“Jail will be hard enough without antagonizing people,” Gus objected, putting the tissue away.  “Make some friends who’ll have your back.”

“There are no friends in jail,” Lassiter objected.  “Keep your mouth shut and don’t get involved.”

“Oooh, do I detect a note of jealousy?” Shawn asked playfully.

Lassiter glanced at Gus again and then turned, his gaze boring into Shawn’s. “I’m dead serious. Shawn. Become someone’s boyfriend and you’ll get passed around like a pack of gum.”

Gus emitted a high-pitched wail and stumbled, sobbing, down the hall.

“Look,” Lassiter leaned his head against the bars, inches from Shawn’s face. “We’ll solve this. And if we don’t, well,” his face hardened, “then we lay our cards on the table.”

“Hmmm. Cards.” Shawn’s mind went back to the stolen business cards at Beefeater’s.

Lassiter closed his eyes and focused on the feel of Shawn’s skin beneath his fingers.  For a brief moment he pretended that none of this—the charges, the evidence, the cell—was really happening, and that they were back at his apartment, nestled on the couch, watching The First 48 and eating greasy take-out.

Lassiter pulled himself from the reverie. “Try not to worry. We’re on this.”

“I know that, Lassie.” Shawn lowered his voice to a whisper. And as soon as I’m free again I’ll show my appreciation by kissing you Alien style.”

Lassiter recoiled. “Like ET?”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Not _that_ alien. _The_ alien. You know.” Shawn opened his mouth and used his hand to imitate the alien’s protruding inner jaw. “With tongue.”

Lassiter glanced back at Gus who was now hiccupping into a tissue at the end of the hall. “In the meantime, stay strong.”

Shawn scoffed. “I refuse to let a Laguna street accountant like Burnett take me down. And I refuse to let our lo-“ Shawn cleared his throat, “life!…our life…turn into a Richard Marx song.”

“Uh, thanks.” Lassiter said, confused.

“Whatever it takes,” Shawn forced a smile. “Or how my heart breaks, I will be right here, waiting for you.”

The heavy clump of footsteps echoed down the hall and Lassiter pulled his hand away and shoved it into his pocket, trying to look casual. Adam Hornstock rounded the corner, his arms full of papers. Buzz McNab loped amiably behind him, sorting through a set of keys.

“Looks like it’s time for the John Grisham portion of the day,” Shawn quipped, all hint of seriousness gone from his face now.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” Hornstock said. “I need to speak with my client.”

* * *

 

Shawn faced his lawyer across the table in a tiny room deep in the basement of the SBPD. 

“Okay, Hornstick,” He said, smiling. “Give with the good news.”

“Horn _stock_.” Adam corrected.

“Right.” Shawn slapped his hands on the table. “When am I getting out of here?”

“About thaaaaat,” Hornstock began, stretching the word out as if reluctant to complete the rest of the sentence. “It looks like you’re considered a flight risk.”

Shawn cocked his head. “How’s that?”

Hornstock grimaced. “Something about having held over fifty short-term jobs in multiple cities, a history of sudden moves, and a lack of family in the area?“

“I have family.  I have Gus.”

“Not actually a relative,” Hornstock pointed out.

“I have…uh,” Shawn paused. He couldn’t mention Lassiter, attorney-client privilege or no. “I have Henry.”

Hornstock looked through his papers. “It says here you’ve described your relationship with your father as ‘estranged.’”

“That’s a typo. I meant strange. It’s very strange what Henry and I have.”

Hornstock winced. “It sounds strange when you call him by his first name like that.”

“Dad. Daddy. Father. Poppa bear. Is that better?”

“Maybe you should practice. Anyone else? You grew up here, right? You must have some family ties.”

“Family ties…Family Ties…Sure I do,” Shawn lied. “There’s uh, Alex, and Mallory, and Jennifer. And sweet little Andrew.”

“Are they willing to testify?” Hornstock asked.

“Probably not.” Shawn slumped in his chair. “Since when does having a few daddy issues make me a killer?”

Hornstock ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Actually, I’m not sure the DA thinks you are a killer.”

“Really?” Shawn frowned. Wasn’t it basically the DA’s job to assume everyone was guilty?

“It’s nothing I can put my finger on,” Hornstock mimed putting his finger on something, possibly an elevator call button. “He’s going through the motions, but I didn’t think he expects to go to court. He’s in no hurry, that’s for sure.” He smiled.  “That’s good, right? More time to prepare our case.”

Shawn nodded. “That’s awesome. My investigation is going well. I figure we should have the real culprit behind bars in a day or so.” He pulled the change from his pocket and counted it. “Listen, I’ll need to make some calls. Can you spare a few bucks in change?”

“No problemo.” Hornstock reached into his briefcase and slammed a roll of quarters onto the table.  “It’s laundry day.”

“Sweet. Thanks Hornstock.”

“Don’t mention it. In the meantime, I’ve sketched out a few possible lines of defence.” He studied his notes and then looked enquiringly at Shawn. “Is it possible you have an evil doppelganger?”

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Detective O’Hara,” a deep voice rasped. “Got a minute?”

Sitting at her desk, Juliet looked up at the tall form of Detective McClellan from Internal Affairs.

Normally, when IA wanted to talk they sent for you and then let you sweat a while in an interview room.  But McClellan had come to her, and was asking to talk instead of demanding it. Her spine tingled.

“Absolutely. Please,” She motioned to a chair. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more a question of what I can do for you.” McClellan pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. “Let’s talk about Steven Burnett.”

O’Hara closed the file she’d been reading and stifled a smile. Given what she’d just learned about the gun permit once issued to Burnett’s now-deceased father, this was a conversation she was very interested in having.

* * *

 

Gus winced as he used his barbeque tongs to hold the envelope from the Perez apartment over the steam from his kettle.  Scalding caused twenty-four percent of major burn injuries each year, and Burton Guster was not about to become another statistic. When the envelope was sufficiently dampened he grabbed his letter opener and eased the flap open.

Pulling out the letter and gently unfolding it, his eyes eagerly read the dead woman’s words to her mother. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. This called for a celebration.

Since the water was boiled, he made himself a cup of vanilla chai and tried to remember where he’d put the ginger snaps he’d hidden from Shawn.  Were they in the Weetabix box?  No, those were the decoy cookies.

***

Standing outside the door to the Psych office, O’Hara stuffed the search warrant into the pocket of her blazer and pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. “Try the door first.” She motioned with her head. Buzz reached down and jiggled the doorknob, but found it locked. O’Hara sighed. Of course it was locked.  With Shawn in custody there was no one to leave it open. “Okay,” she said heavily.  “Get us in.”

She stepped back, expecting Buzz to give it a slam with his shoulder or a kick with his heavy boot, but instead the big officer shuffled carefully through his keys and unlocked the door.

“You have a key to the Psych office?”

Buzz nodded solemnly. “In the event that Shawn and Gus die simultaneously I’ve agreed to get rid of any uh…stuff that might be in their office or on their computers.” He silently mouthed the word ‘porn.’ “It’s a big responsibility.”

O’Hara stepped inside and surveyed the room with a thoughtful pout before turning to Buzz. “We need to print this whole place.”

Buzz poked a bobblehead of Gus with a gloved finger and enjoyed the way it jiggled. “That’s a lot of prints.  Shawn and Gus are here all the time, and they bring clients here too.”

She opened her crime scene kit. “We’re looking for one particular print. Anything belonging to Steven Burnett.” A smirk crossed her lips and for just a moment she reminded Buzz of Lassiter. It was kind of spooky.

* * *

 

Coming up from what he hoped was his final visit with Shawn in the holding cells, Gus took a deep breath, straightened to his full 5’10”, and approached Lassiter at his desk in the SBPD bullpen.

“We need to talk.”

The head detective motioned for Gus to follow him into an alcove by the filing cabinet. “Is this about my personal life, Guster? Because so help me I will not have my—“

“It’s not,” Gus assured him. “Shawn’s uh, had a vision confirming that Burnett and Samantha Perez were a couple, and that she suspected him of having committed a crime.” Gus swallowed, unsure of how much Shawn might have admitted about his supposed psychic gifts. “We need to search Burnett’s apartment.“

Lassiter swore. “We’d never get a warrant based on the vision of a murder suspect, and anything we found by illegal entry would be thrown out of court.”

“Maybe we could get him to invite us in,” Gus suggested. “If there’s evidence in plain sight….”

Lassiter swore again. “He’s had time to throw away anything incriminating.”

“Maybe,” Gus said, looking sly, “we need to go through his garbage, Sneakers-style.”

Lassiter nodded grimly. “Let me grab some gear.” He ran off in the direction of the storage closet.  When he returned a few moments later, with two rubber ponchos under his arm, Gus was holding a sheet of paper, tilting it in the light from Lassiter’s desk lamp.

“What’s that?” Lassiter asked.

“A page of stationary from Samantha Perez’ desk.  There’s a trace of her last note on it. I can’t help feeling it’s important.”

Lassiter loomed in. “You took that? That could be evidence.”

Gus got defensive. “You guys take evidence all the time.”

“We’re the police,” Lassiter said through clenched teeth. “We collect evidence.”

“Well I work with the police, and I’m working with you now, and this could be important evidence.” He continued examining the notepad.

Lassiter squinted at the sheet, covered in graphite shading. “Restaurant. K. Chow. 6pm?” He snorted derisively. “Sounds work related.” Seeing the disappointment on the other man’s face he added, “Sorry Guster, not every piece of trash you pick up at a crime scene can be a clue.”

Gus grabbed the notepad back and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

“Enough of this Hardy Boys crap.” Lassiter said. “Let me show you how real police work is done: with patient persistence, filthy assignments, and soul-grinding tedium.”

“I took the liberty of calling ahead,” Gus said, glaring at the back of Lassiter’s head as he followed him to the door. “Burnett’s super has collected all the garbage from Monday in the storage room.”

“That was nice of him,” Lassiter said. “He knows we’re not paying him for that, right?”

Gus winced. “He may think I’m from the city’s Hazardous Waste Containment Department.”

“Why would he think that?” As far as Lassiter knew, the city had no such department.

“No idea.” Gus shrugged with feigned innocence and followed Lassiter to the parking lot.

* * *

 

“This is the last of it.” Lassiter, wearing an enormous black rain poncho, set the garbage bag on the tarp with the others. On television, when cops sorted through a suspect’s garbage it was clean, odorless, and dry, with all objects easily distinguishable from one another.  The occupants of the Laguna Street apartment building were not producing television garbage. This garbage was slimy, messy, and stinky. Lassiter looked at Gus, in rain poncho and bright yellow dishwashing gloves, sorting through an already open bag on a folding table. “Any luck yet?”

Gus pulled the white filter mask from his face. “No.” He glanced from the handful of junk mail in one hand to the list of residents of the Laguna St. apartment complex.  “Shapiro. This bag is definitely from the second floor.” He closed the bag and hefted it to the pile in the corner.

Lassiter donned gloves and opened a bag, turning his face away at the smell. “Congealed Chinese food and… Ugh! Ladies hygiene…things.” He closed the bag. “This isn’t Burnett’s. At this rate we’ll never clear Shawn.”

“You know,” Gus ventured. “If you need to talk…I mean, I get how you must feel.”

“I can’t afford to feel,” Lassiter growled.  The fact was, he wasn’t sure how he felt.  Drunken roughhousing had turned unexpectedly sexual.  Then it happened again. Then it happened sober. Soon it was happening with alarming frequency and shades of domesticity had crept in. They’d even had a pseudo-romantic dinner out. And then Shawn got arrested. Lassiter opened the next bag. National Geographics, covered in fungus.

“I’m just saying.” Gus heaved another bag onto the table. “You can talk to me.”

“I don’t need to talk,” Lassiter insisted.  “I just need to solve this case.” He dumped two heavy bags into the ‘done’ pile. “Although the way things are going, Shawn may beat us to it.” He paused, unsure whether he wanted to get into the issue of Shawn’s supposed psychic gift. “He’s good at what he does.”

“I know it.” Gus agreed, adding a searched bag to the growing pile. “He’s like Batman. If Batman were broke and not very motivated.”

Lassiter smirked. “So that makes you Robin.”

“Hell no.” Gus smiled, fists on his hips, chest out. “I see myself as a black Clark Kent.”

“Clark Kent’s not a superhero,” Lassiter objected. “He’s an alter-ego.”

“Clark Kent is Kal-El’s Earth identity, powers and all. Superman is just his superhero persona.”

“Whatever.” Lassiter focused on the garbage. Guster’s conversation was starting to resemble a Tarantino monologue. “Bingo!” He pulled a sheaf of papers from the bag. “Burnett’s cellphone bill.” He began to scan the numbers. “We’ll look these up at the station. See who he’s been talking to.”

“This bag is from Burnett’s too,” Gus added, sorting through the contents.  “An empty package of Milk Duds. Orange peels. Wood glue. Super glue. The guy uses a lot of glue.”

“What?” Lassiter dropped the bag he was holding and moved over to look. “Well, well, well,” he said, picking up a plastic sheet. “We’re eating oranges and we’re making fingerprints.”

“How’s that?” Gus asked.

Lassiter pointed at the bottle of superglue. “The main ingredient of superglue is cyanoacrylate.”

“Right. Right.” Gus nodded, excited now. “It reacts with the fat residue in fingerprints, forming a solid, white substance. I’ve seen them develop prints with it on CSI.”

Lassiter nodded too. “Burnett develops the print with the superglue, then copies it with a scanner, or better yet, takes a picture of it with his cellphone.” He gripped the thin plastic sheet, from which a corner had been cut.  “Then he prints the picture on the transparency, reproducing Shawn’s print. That’s where the wood glue comes in.”

Gus’ eyes lit in understanding. “Shawn and I used to coat our hands in wood glue, let it dry, then peel it off like fake skin.”

Lassiter nodded. “All kids do that.”

Gus looked down at the garbage. There was no way he was going to admit they’d done that only two weekends ago, nor to having chased each other around the office in an epic glue fight.  “So,” he added quickly, “he smears wood glue on the transparency and he’s got a fake print!”

“Exactly.” Lassiter smiled. For the first time since this whole nightmare started he finally had something solid. “He must have had access to something with Shawn’s prints on it.”

“Hey!” Gus’ hand dived into the bag. “This is one of our business cards.” He held up the small card with Psych logo on it.  “What do you want to bet this has Shawn’s prints on it?”

“No bet, Guster.” Lassiter smacked him on the back. “Job well done.”

He bagged the evidence and then they surveyed the dozen garbage bags still to sort.

“Well,” Gus admitted, “job half done.”

***

Juliet O’Hara and Buzz McNab approached the holding cell, keys jingling.  O’Hara’s face could barely contain her excitement.

Shawn hung up the payphone and stuffed a handful of sweaty quarters into his pocket.

“Jules! Buzz! Am I glad to see you,” he said.  “I’ve had a vision.”

“And I’ve got good news.” O’Hara sang out.

“Me too!” Shawn nodded eagerly and pressed himself against the bars. 

“I know who killed Samantha Perez!” Shawn and O’Hara spoke in unison.

For a moment O’Hara stood motionless, her mouth gaping.  Then she sighed, pulled her wallet from a pocket and passed a $20 bill to Buzz McNab, who hummed happily as he tucked it into his pocket.

Shawn slapped a hand to his forehead. “I see clues.  Clues and visions.  It’s like a heatwave. Flames!  On the side of my face. Breathing, heaving, breaths—“

“Okay. Enough!” O’Hara raised her hands in surrender.  “What do you see, Shawn?”

“Take me to the crime scene and I’ll clear this whole mess up. I’ll need Lassie and Gus, too.” He looked at his wrist, where his watch would normally be, but wasn’t. “We can all be home in time to watch that NBC special where Molly Ringwald talks to sloths.”

“Fine.” O’Hara said, unlocking the cell door. “But let’s officially release you from custody first.” She smiled. “If you’re gonna take this dirtbag down it should be as a free man.” Shawn stepped out, stretching as if he’d been confined in a locker for 24 hours.

Buzz grinned and smacked a hand onto Shawn’s shoulder. “Let’s swing by property and get your stuff,” he said.  “I charged your phone.”

* * *

 

“I don’t know about you,” Gus said grimacing, as he loaded the last garbage bag into a bin, “but I feel filthy.”

“I hear you.” Even with the protective gear Lassiter was sweaty and grimy, and he suspected that the strong smell of spoiled milk, decaying takeout, and wet cardboard was going to cling. He surveyed the rain gear he’d commandeered.  There was no way he was putting it into his trunk without double or triple-bagging it first.  He had just stripped off the poncho when his cell phone rang.

“Lassiter.” The chipper voice of his partner babbled quickly into his ear.  “I’ll be there ASAP,” he assured her before hanging up.

Gus looked at him expectantly.

Lassiter didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Shawn’s had a ‘vision.’ He’s gathering everyone at Burnett’s apartment to make an arrest.”

“That’s great,” Gus said. He felt his shoulder muscles relax. “I just wish we’d gotten that call before we sorted through a weeks worth of stinky trash.” While Lassiter bagged up the gear Gus pulled out his own phone and quickly texted Shawn, letting him know about their discovery in the garbage.

Lassiter closed the trunk of his car on the rain gear and the evidence and then checked his watch.  Technically, his shift had ended hours ago.

“Any chance we could shower and change before we join everyone upstairs?” Gus asked.

Lassiter sniffed. That smell had definitely permeated his clothes. Possibly his skin. “You know what, Guster,” he said, “I’m gonna sit this one out.”

“Sit this one out?” Gus pointed in the direction of the garbage room. “After all that?  No way José! I deserve to be in on the arrest. And so do you. They’re up there now, waiting for us.” He stood, chin up, daring Lassiter to disagree.

“Shawn doesn’t need us,” Lassiter ground out.  “He never did.” Shawn had solved the crime without any clues, from inside a jail cell while his best friend and—well, Lassiter wasn’t sure what he was—had dug for clues in the garbage. All for nothing. His clothes needed to be laundered, and he needed to shower for about an hour. Maybe even sink into a hot manly bath.  He sniffed an armpit and made a face. He’d need to drive with the windows down. 

“It’s not like that, Lassiter.” Gus wished he could have told the detective how all the work they’d done and the clues they’d uncovered—the Burnett land deal, the flower delivery, the faked fingerprint, the letter he’d slipped to Shawn on his last visit—had led to Shawn’s ‘vision.’  But looking at him now, sore, tired, grouchy, and grimy, he doubted that the news would be taken in the spirit he intended.  Instead he’d just have to watch Lassiter drive off angry and hope that Shawn could repair the damage.

“Sure it is.”

“Well Shawn’s counting on me,” Gus said.  “So garbage or no garbage, I’m going upstairs.”

Lassiter stood outside the apartment doors, watching as Gus disappeared into the elevator.  Was he right?  Was Shawn counting on him? Had he ever? How many cases could he watch Shawn steal from under him before he felt completely useless? He thought back to their dinner at Beefeaters. Despite his paranoia about being discovered, it had been fun.  And their evenings at his place had been really enjoyable. As had the mornings.  He smiled. Shawn’s attempts at being domestic were endearing. He’d felt wanted.  Desired, even.  But had he ever felt necessary? He wasn’t so sure. And he needed to be sure.

Lassiter was halfway into the drivers seat before he was stopped by a series of high-pitched screams. Lassiter turned and glared up at the building through mirrored sunglasses.  

“Lassie!”

There, clinging frantically to the iron grille work four stories above, was Shawn Spencer.  His legs kicked frantically, looking for purchase but finding none. Lassiter felt his guts tighten.  A fall from that height—Shawn would be lucky if he could hobble away with just a leg or pelvis broken. Land the wrong way and it was game over. Lassiter began to run, his legs burning from the effort. Shawn needed him.

The tiny peonies still swayed innocently in their planting boxes as Shawn began to fall.

* * *

 

While Gus and Lassiter wrapped up their garbage sorting in the basement of the Laguna St. apartment building, O’Hara, Buzz, and Shawn had entered the elevator and been carried smoothly to the fourth floor, where O’Hara had rapped sharply on the door of Mr. Steven Burnett.

“Mr. Burnett?  It’s the SBPD.  We’d like to talk with you.”

The sound of shuffling could be heard inside and just as O’Hara was considering a more forceful approach the door opened and Burnett glared out at them with bloodshot eyes.  “What more do you people want?”

“There’s just a few more details we need to clear up,” O’Hara said, her voice carrying an undertone of malicious happiness.  “May we come in?”

Burnett stepped back and opened the door to allow them inside. Burnett indicated Shawn with a nod of his head.  “Isn’t he the guy that killed the lady across the hall?”

“Actually,” McNab explained, “Shawn works as a psychic with the Santa Barbara Police Department.”

“A psychic?” Burnett sputtered.  “You must be joking.”

O’Hara shook her head.  “No joke.  He’s actually quite good.”

Shawn nodded.  “That’s right, Jack. How else could I know your internet history is filled with scantily clad photos of David Hasslehoff?”

Burnett’s face turned red.  “That’s not true!”

“Okay maybe not Hasselhoff. Maybe I’m getting William Daniels, the voice of Kitt.”

“This man is insane!” Burnett protested.

“Quite possibly,” O’Hara allowed.

As Gus appeared in the hall outside, Shawn pointed dramatically toward the door.  “Oh!” he shook a leg, and took two staggering steps toward the door. “The restless spirit of Samantha Perez is calling me to the murdered woman’s apartment!”

Buzz McNab strode forward, slit the fresh sealing tape, and unlocked the door.

“After you, Mr. Burnett” O’Hara gestured for the suspect to go ahead of her. “Hello, Gus,” she said pleasantly, spotting the pharmaceutical salesman in the hall outside.  As the smell of the garbage hit her she raised a hand to her nose. “My god, is that you?”

Gus nodded and hung his head. “Yeah.  Just, don’t even.”

“I won’t.” With her nose buried in her palm, she entered the apartment, opened the windows and patio door, and then moved to block the exit to the hall.

Shawn leaned against Samantha Perez’ desk and slipped the letters Gus had given him from his back jeans pocket onto the desk.  With his audience standing expectantly in front of him, Shawn turned to the desk and looked surprised. “Why hello. What’s this?” He snatched the letter to her mother from the desk and held it against his head.  “I sense that this contains details about Samantha Perez’ love life.” He cocked an ear. “What’s that, Samantha?” He pointed at Steven Burnett.  “You!” He winked at Gus. “She says you sent her flowers on Sunday.”

Burnett crossed his arms defensively. “I send lots of women flowers.”

Shawn put two fingers to his temple. “You were having a romantic affair with her,” he said. “I see her in a skimpy negligee, opening the door to you, unaware of the danger that you posed.”

You must be talking about yourself,” Burnett said, smiling at Shawn with even white teeth.  “I saw you flee the crime scene.”

“He’s talking about you.” Gus moved toward Burnett. “You killed Samantha Perez and tried to frame Shawn for the murder.”

“That’s right.  She suspected you’d already—“ As Gus came within range Shawn grimaced, stuck out his tongue and moved his mouth wordlessly for a moment, gagging. He turned to Gus. “Sweet Bluebeard’s ghost, Dude!  Is that smell coming from you?”

Gus stepped back.  “Yes, Shawn. I smell.  That happens when you spend hours sorting through a suspect’s garbage. For you, I might add!”

“Go!” Shawn waved his hands dismissively. “You smell like corndogs left in the sun. Stand by the window.” Gus moved to the open patio door, but Shawn continued to direct him away. “No good. Try the other side of the room.”

“Very well.” Gus strode to the far window and stood with his back to it, fanning fresh air onto his shirt.

“Where was I?” Shawn asked, turning back to Burnett. “Oh. Right. Samantha suspected you had killed Kevin Chow. “

Buzz raised a hand. “Uh, who’s Kevin Chow?”

“Ooh! I know this one!” O’Hara piped up.  “He’s the developer Burnett was hoping would buy his property.” She nudged Buzz. “McClellan from IA told me about it. “

Shawn nodded. “The two of you had dinner at Beefeaters Saturday night.” His memory ran back over the details of that night, and to the autopsy report Woody had supplied.  “I see a Chinese man in a grey suit. And you, attacking him in an alley with a tire iron.” Burnett looked gratifyingly alarmed. “And after you bludgeoned him you came back to Beefeater’s, tore out the page containing your reservation, and stole all the business cards from the raffle, destroying any chance I might have had of getting a 2 for 1 meal deal.”

“And that’s where you got Shawn’s thumbprint!” Gus declared, jabbing the air from afar with an accusatory finger. “Which you later planted to frame him!”

“Frame him? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Burnett was smirking, but Shawn was close enough he could the sweat beading at his temples.

“So if we search your apartment,” Gus asked, “there’s no way we’ll find Shawn’s fingerprints made out of wood glue?”

Burnett swallowed but said nothing.

“You shot Samantha Pérez,” Shawn said triumphantly, “and you planted my hair on the victim!”

Burnett leaned against the wall, the sun slanting through the patio door putting half his face into shadow. “And I just happened to have your hair hanging around, did I?”

“You could have followed him and stolen it,” Gus cut in.  “Humans shed fifty to one hundred hairs every day.”

Burnett smirked. “Good luck proving that.”

Gus looked offended. “You can check with the American Academy of dermatology.”

“He means you can’t prove he planted the hair,” O’Hara explained.

“Oh.”

“But I can prove it,” O’Hara said, her eyes burning into Burnett. “We found your fingerprints in the Psych office, Mr. Burnett. Care to explain how they got there?”

“I, uh, I…” Burnett stammered.

Shawn raised a hand and clapped it onto Burnett’s head.  “Oh! I sense that the camera at the weird bank across the street picked up your creepy skulking and illegal entry.”

“There’s nothing weird about _Banco Populare_.” Gus objected. 

“It’s in Spanish,” Shawn pointed out, “That’s kind of weird.”

“Latinos make up 35% of the Santa Barbara population,” Gus said.  “They have to bank somewhere.”

“That’s immaterial,” Shawn said.  He held a hand to his head, and briefly imagined himself as Kim Carnes in the We Are The World video. Then he pointed dramatically at Burnett. “I see you, at beefeaters with Kevin Chow at 6:00pm. He’s having a porterhouse…” Shawn saw the confident grin slip from Burnett’s face. “…greenbeans,” he added, remembering Woody’s description of the victim’s stomach contents, “and mashed…no, _garlic_ mashed potatoes.” He basked in what he assumed was Burnett’s ‘how did he know that?’ face.

“You can’t prove any of that,” Burnett said uneasily.

“Did you pay with a credit card?” Shawn asked. Seeing the panic flash across the suspects’ face he added, “I bet you did.”

“Easy enough to find out,” O’Hara said.  “We’ll just check Beefeater’s receipts.”

“You were hoping Chow would fund your land deal,” Shawn said.  “But when he dropped out, you got angry. And when you get angry, you hit people with a crowbar.”

“Not always.” Burnett’s lip curled and his grey eyes were like stones. “Sometimes I shoot them.” In a flash of movement he pulled a gun and moved to grab Shawn.  Then several things happened at once. O’Hara and Buzz pulled their weapons. Gus emitted a series of high-pitched screams and threw himself behind the comfortably bouncy couch of the late Samantha Perez, and Shawn leaped sideways, out the balcony door.

* * *

 

Shawn‘s sweaty grip slipped on the iron grill of the balcony and he gasped as he went into free-fall.  His life began to flash before his eyes—mainly episodes of Chips and John Hughes films. Then suddenly he was enveloped by strong arms, and he collapsed onto the lawn in a tangle of limbs.

“Oh Lassie!” Shawn embraced the detective in a crushing hug and peppered his face with kisses.  “You saved me! You’re amazing.” Then he suddenly released his grip and recoiled. “And you reek!” He rose unsteadily and took a step back. “Why does everyone I care about suddenly smell like a hobo’s boot?

Lassiter remained on the lawn, dazed, his favourite sunglasses lying in fragments on the grass. “You care about me?”

”Well, duh!” Shawn extended a hand and helped pull the detective to his feet. “I did time for you, man.”

Lassiter half smiled as he dusted grass clippings from his pants. “You spent a day in holding because all the evidence pointed at you.”

“Oh please!” Shawn put his nose in the air. “I could have alibied out. Spilled the beans. Let the cat out of the bag. Dropped a dime.”

“But you didn’t.” For a moment the two men just stood, blue eyes meeting green. Shawn took a step forward, ignoring the smell.

“Everyone okay down there?”

Lassiter looked up to where Juliet O’Hara and Burton Guster was peering anxiously from the window and patio door of Samantha Perez’ apartment.

“S’okay.” Shawn shouted back.  “How’s Burnett?”

“Disarmed, bruised, and in custody. We’ll be right down.” O’Hara and Gus disappeared back inside.

Shawn looked up at the empty windows, then back at Lassiter.

“Come here, you filthy animal!”

After what seemed like an eternity of illicit public lip locking, Lassiter pulled back. “I’d better see if they need any help.”

As they entered the foyer the elevator opened and O’Hara thrust a dejected and handcuffed Burnett ahead of her.

“I think you broke my cheek,” he complained.

“You pulled a gun on officers of the law. You’re lucky that’s all I broke.” She propelled him toward the door.  As Burnett passed Shawn noticed that the man was developing one hell of a shiner.

“It was beautiful!” Gus crowed.  “You should have seen the way she took him down.  Bam!” He mimed throwing a punch. “Just like that.”

O’Hara’s face flushed.  “I have been doing a lot of boxercize lately.”

Buzz shook his head regretfully. “You should have let me sweep the leg.”

“Next time,” she assured him. 

* * *

 

“I swear to God, I had no idea Burnett had another gun,” Shawn declared the next morning. The group was gathered in the kitchen of the SBPD, drinking coffee and eating celebratory donuts. “My psychic powers just didn’t pick it up. Evil intentions, yes.  Bad dress sense, most definitely.  A gun?  No.”

 

“Well I’m just glad nobody got hurt,” O’Hara said.  “It’s a good thing Lassiter was there to break your fall.”

Shawn looked at Lassiter, starry-eyed.

“I’ve been falling a long time, Lassie. I’m just glad you finally caught me.”

Lassiter blushed and tugged at his collar. “Yes, well, I was just doing my job.”

McClellan entered, crossed to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. “I just heard about your collar in that double homicide,” he said.  “Nice work, everyone.”

“We just followed the evidence,” O’Hara said, smiling behind her coffee cup.

The IA man looked at Shawn. “I guess you’re not a blood-sucking parasite on the skin of the SBPD after all. You’re…okay.”

“Would you mind if we used that in our upcoming ad campaign?” Shawn asked. McClellan declined to reply.

“What I still don’t get,” Buzz said, “is why Burnett stole the business cards from the restaurant.”

“Chow and Burnett had both entered their business cards in the Beefeater’s contest,” Gus explained. “After he killed Chow, Burnett was in a panic to erase any trace of their meeting. So he went back and stole the business cards.”

“And he tore a page from the reservation book.” Shawn added. “Getting my print on the card was just a bonus. In fact, that’s probably how he decided to frame me in the first place.”

Gus looked at his watch.  “We’d better go.  Beefeater’s gave us a coupon for two free lunch entrees.” He and Shawn bumped fists.  “I’m sensing Famous Fish Fries in our future.”

O’Hara watched as Shawn and Gus strolled toward the door.

“I still wish I knew what Shawn’s secret alibi was,” she said.

Lassiter smirked. “I guess we’ll never know.”

O’Hara tilted her head and looked up at her partner.  “You know,” she said, “when I was questioning Shawn about his alibi he mentioned having a taco at the El Pescadero’s truck that morning.  Isn’t that just around the corner from your place?

“Is it?” Lassiter took a gulp of coffee.  “I wouldn’t know.”

O’Hara’s spine tingled.

 

THE END

 

 

 

 


End file.
